Greenbush Cemetery

The ghosts of Greenbush Cemetery call to me,
Aged voices of those long gone
Groaning out at me, the living,
Asking me to speak their memories into song.

But what do I know of them beyond their names,
Their dates of birth or their dates of grave?
I may know they were Snapps and Simmons,
Butlers or Powers,
But I know little of their lives,
Their joys, their sorrows.

They are the dead.

I am living but with one foot in the grave.
They are quiet and still,
But amongst the quick I remain.

In the slow spring wind
Thru old cedar branches they creak and cringe,
"We are your kin.
Without us you are not.
Thru us you were made.
It matters not that you did not know us -
Our blood flows in your vein.

Your simple pleasures,
Your simple sins, with us it was the same:
We were born. We lived. We had lives.
We made mistakes. We felt pain.
We loved and had lovers.
We cried and had tears.
We had our own memories
And we had our own years.

Now we lie here in boxes beneath the sod,
Disturbed only by some man and some tractor
When the snows are gone.
He makes noise with his machine
To make the grass just so.
We would have used a sickle or a scythe
But the result is the same:
All that is living is cut down in its time....

Remember us, and more than just our dates
And our names.
Remember us as humans with hearts
And with fears.
Remember that we lived and that we watered,
Yes watered these fields with our tears.

Lean close to this stone,
Press your ear to its cold, etched lime.
And hear the breeze that rolls up o'er this hill
Whisper our sublime.

We wait for you and will wait silent and still,
For your day is coming too…
You think it will not come too quickly,
Such is the mortal lie:
Life is for the living, or so it seems until you die.
And then you too will rest here in some pine box
In this row or that, waiting for the trumpet
That will call us back,
Or for those who didn't trust their heart
And listened only to their brain,
To the everlasting burn of the ever lasting flame.